by Clarke Rubel
Looking into eyes that have recorded what mine will never see to recall; Beneath brows furled by years of wondering, Upon a face furrowed like a well-cultivated garden. Atop shoulders less supple for having borne a shawl of sorrow and joy: From which extend arms often extended, and then the hands that speak and my hands the listeners Each labored movement, step, breath, a sympathetic wince stirs within me. Knowing this is a consequence of fortune and, having secured my own fortune through prayer, I run my fingers down my cheek --and notice a crease.
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